


Always

by lissy303



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lissy303/pseuds/lissy303
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock only has one more foe to take care of in Moriarty's network, but they might have just found a weakness he didn't realize he had. Sherlolly fluffy goodness. Written pre-series 3, posted on ff.net under the same username.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at Sherlock fanfiction. Be nice! Takes place after The Fall... Sherlock is back, but there’s still one more threat out there that he has yet to take care of. Already posted on ff.net under the same username.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine at all, just playing!

“Why are you doing this?”

It wasn’t often that Sherlock Holmes felt overwhelmed. Even now, when most people would be afraid for their lives, with their hands handcuffed behind their backs and tied to a chair with a mad woman proficiently handling a gun in front of them, Sherlock still felt in control. That’s what he told himself, at the very least, and confidence was half the battle.

“Because,” the young woman said, idly stroking the gun in her hand. Sherlock knew what she was capable of with nearly any gun. That handgun in particular was practically an extension of her arm. A master sharpshooter and an excellent sniper, she was no one to be trifled with. Except by, of course, Sherlock Holmes. “You wouldn’t leave me alone.”

The metallic taste of blood was fresh on Sherlock’s tongue. One of her men had backhanded him when he had made some erroneous deduction about his personal life. Sherlock had no doubt that the man would have continued his beating if the woman in front of them hadn’t called him off. The man backed away with fire in his eyes, clearly not liking his order but obeying nonetheless. “You’re the last of Moriarty’s men.”

“And is that why it took you so long to find me?” she giggled. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound, and Sherlock mentally kicked himself for not seeing it earlier. “Because I am no man, but, in fact, a woman?”

It had nothing to do with the fact that she was a woman. Sherlock knew what women could be just as diabolical as men, and anyone trained under Moriarty would be lethal, regardless of gender. No, she had mastered the art of disguise, just like her previous master, hiding in plain sight. He had met her months ago and had written her off as shy and incapable; she had only been an assistant to some executive in a wealthy firm. She frequently dropped her paperwork and stuttered on the phone. Mr. Bigsly, her employer at the time, rolled his eyes at her mishaps and threatened to fire her one or two times. Something always kept her around though, and Sherlock was beginning to see what.

Sherlock remained silent, knowing that the woman in front of him would continue her talking and, hopefully, make some fatal mistake. “No, I know you, Mr. Holmes. You’re no misogynist. You understand what I’m capable of. What I can do.” She walked away, turning towards a young man with a laptop. Her young henchman muttered something that Sherlock could not hear, and she nodded in return. She grabbed an empty chair and swung it in front of Sherlock so the back faced him, and sat in front of him, arms folding under her chin on the top of the back. “You know who I am?”

“Sabrina Moran,” he muttered, his baritone voice echoing throughout the enclosed space. No one else spoke and the room was silent, save for the young computer expert who sat behind her.

She smiled. “Most people just call me Sabby.”

“Second in command, only after Moriarty himself,” he continued, as if she had never interrupted. “He saw something in you. He handpicked you personally.”

“He did,” she conceded, smiling. “No one ever saw me like Jim saw me. That was the point, I suppose. I’ll be honest, it made rallying the troops a bit difficult after his death. But most people sought to follow me in the end.” She smiled even wider, and Sherlock was vaguely reminded of the grinning Cheshire cat. “You certainly helped with that too, by eliminating my competition. Thanks for that.”  
  
“I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know.” Her smiled faded ever so slightly, but her underlying amusement was still evident in her eyes. “Jim made your life a living hell. He nearly succeeded in ruining it, too. But he got cocky. He made mistakes. He wouldn’t listen to those around him, and he failed. You won, and I congratulate you for that.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What did you know that he didn’t?”

She chuckled as if the answer was obvious. “I warned him about her, you know. Your little pathologist friend. What’s her name... Maggie? Margie?”

“Molly,” he growled.

Her eyes danced with delight. “Ah, yes. _Molly._ ” She clearly knew the name, she only wanted to get a rise out of him, and Sherlock would not... _could not_ satisfy her in that regard. “It was clever of him to use her at first to get to you. After your first encounter, he was ever so convinced that she meant nothing to you. And perhaps she didn’t, _then._ But by the time of your last encounter...” She shook her head. “Jim had visions of grandeur. Once he began a game, he only concentrated on the big players. You were the biggest player of them all, but you were surrounded by others. The mother-figure, the father-figure, the brother... all important characters in the grand scheme of things. But Jim forgot about the pawns. The little ones that still matter. And at the end of the day, that was his downfall.”

She leaned forward on her chair, staring intently at Sherlock. He shifted uncomfortably under her intense gaze. It wasn’t like Irene Adler’s gaze, which exuded her sexuality. She was attempting to deduce him, not seduce. Sherlock could only imagine this is how others felt like when he deduced them.

“So what happens now? You’ll kill me? Finish what Moriarty started?”

She sighed, dropping her head into her arms. “Sherlock, haven’t you been listening to me? You’re in this position because you wouldn’t leave me alone. I just mentioned all of the important players. _All of them._ If I kill you now, don’t you think they’d come after me? And then it’s back to where I was before... running, hiding, planning, kidnapping. It all gets rather dull, after a while.” She stood, kicking the chair away from her. “Jim had visions of grandeur. I do not. In less than an hour, I will be getting on plane and will be flying far, far away from here, where I will be out of your hair, and you’ll be out of mine. And you’ll let me.”

Sherlock snarled, trying to twist his hands out of the handcuffs. Picking handcuffs was typically easy, but there was something different about this set. She smiled at his struggle. “Why would I let you just get away? I...”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’ve just spent the last two years or so hunting down every one of Moriarty’s men. Why would you let the last of them just get away? Because I have a tool in my belt that Jim never understood how to use. The act of mercy.”

Sherlock snorted, finally slipping one hand out of the handcuffs. Blood trickled down his wrist into his palm, but he was on his way to freedom. “You think just because you could have killed me and you chose not to, that means I won’t come after you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Holmes. You’ve already risked your life countless of times in order to end Jim’s reign. The value of your life means less than the value of killing each and every last one of his men.”

“Sabby,” the man on the computer called. She turned her back on Sherlock and looked at the computer.

She chuckled again, shaking her head. “Right on schedule. God, he’s getting predictable. Losing his touch.” She walked back to the desk her computer henchman was working on and grabbed a picture. Holding it up in front of Sherlock’s face, she asked: “Do you recognize this man?”

He squinted in the lack of light. It was a picture of a very handsome man smiling at something away from the camera. Sherlock recognized his face and ran through his mind palace to place it. _Bart’s... he’s someone at St. Bart’s... Nurse? Doctor? Lab Assistant...?_ He was the new lab assistant who worked with Molly occasionally, though they held different hours. Sherlock sometimes saw him drop off paperwork or samples for Molly, though he always scurried away like a dog with his tail between its legs when he caught Sherlock’s glare.

“His name,” she said, placing the picture back on the desk. “Is Abram Ivanov, though he goes by Abe. He’s Bart’s newest assistant, didn’t you know? He has a bit of a crush on your dear Molly, but he finally plucked up enough courage to ask her out for a date. In fact, he’s on his way right now to take her out on a little lunch date. How cute.”

Sherlock felt his stomach drop. There was more to the story, there had to be. She wouldn’t be bringing up Molly and this new character if he wasn’t of some evil importance. She continued on with a certain gleam in her eyes. It wasn’t like before, where she enjoyed tormenting Sherlock. This was something far more personal to her. “He was also Jim’s last hire before his death.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he tried in vain to loosen the knots around his ankles. He was beginning to panic, though he knew the overabundance of adrenaline the fear would give him would do nothing. He heard the cocking of a gun beside him and turned to stare into the barrel of a gun held by the first henchman to tie him down.

Sabby clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “Don’t do that, Mr. Holmes. You’ll only make matters worse for you and those around you if you go and get yourself killed. I only said I _wanted_ to retire. I don’t have to.” He stopped his struggles as the adrenaline coursed through his veins. His breathing became heavy and forced. Try as he might, he couldn’t put much conscious thought into what he was doing. “Calm down, Mr. Holmes. The next decision you make is highly important and will affect everyone in this room, including those on camera.” She flipped the laptop around so he could see what was on the screen. Two camera feeds were screening simultaneously; one showing inside Bart’s morgue, where Molly continued to work hard, and the other of a taxi, where a man... _Abram_ was getting in and directing the cabbie where to go.

“That cab ride should only take him about seven minutes in this traffic. That’s how long you’ll have to decide if you’ll agree to the terms of my proposition. Please settle down, Mr. Holmes. Harm does not have to come to Molly, but you need to listen to me.”

“You...” he growled.

“Abram is _not_ one of my men,” Sabby admitted, sitting back down in the chair. “Like I said, he was the newest recruit. Jim had high hopes for him as well, but died before he had any sort of chance to train him. I admit, I did try to recruit him after the fact, but he defected. I lost track of him in the flurry of everyone trying to gain power. Yet you slowly picked off my competitors one by one, and it made it much easier for me to find him. I’ve been watching him for a few weeks now, trying to figure out what he would do. He wants to make a name for himself. Forget about working your way up the ranks in an already established organization. He wants his fame and glory and power, and he wants it _now_. And what better way to make a name for yourself than by beating the man who took down the greatest criminal, ever?

“I’m not entirely sure what he intends to do with Molly,” she said, leaning forward once more. “Of course, he means to draw you out using her. She could be injured or killed, or he could treat her like a complete gentleman, who knows? Though I doubt the experience will be very pleasant for her.”

“What is your proposition?” Sherlock yelled, leaning forward as if to reach Sabby. His body betrayed him, knowing that, with all of her henchmen in the room and the gun in her own hands, he could not physically overpower her. But logic and reasoning left him a crazed man as he tried to figure out what to do to save Molly.

“I’m glad you asked,” she grinned again. “Like I said, Abram is not one of my men, but the cabbie driving him is. No one ever suspects the cabbie,” she smirked, referencing the first case that Sherlock had heard of Moriarty’s name. “On my command, the cabbie will dispose of Abram before they even make it to their destination. Miss Molly would never know anything about the potential harm that nearly got to her, though she might be a bit disappointed after being stood up by her date.”

Sabby raised her eyebrows expectantly at Sherlock. “And what do you want from me?” he cried.

“Your word that you won’t come after me. I promise that I will be far away from London, and you’ll never see or hear from me. If I save Molly, I leave, and you’ll never even think of me again. Before you disagree,” she said, raising up her hand to pause him from saying anything. “Realize that Molly’s fate is tied in this now, whether she knows it or not. Any other outcome you can think of involves her being hurt one way or another, whether it’s now or in the future. I swear to you that as long as you leave me alone, Molly is left alone. But the opposite is true as well.”

Sherlock’s mind struggled to comprehend the options given to him. He had an estimated three minutes left to sort everything out and plan for all of his options, but he knew the answer already. Losing to one of Moriarty’s people would be terrible, but even worse would be losing Molly.

He looked at her picture on the computer screen. She was straightening up the morgue, idly swaying with a silly grin on her face. There was no audio with the feed, but he could only imagine her dancing to some song she had playing. She was excited for her date, that much was obvious. She was carefree and sweet, and if there was ever anybody in the world who did not deserve to get caught up in this mess, it was her.

_Her. Always her._

“Well, Mr Holmes?” Sabby still sat in front him, waiting patiently. She turned to look at the screen as well. “Only two minutes or so left. What’s your decision?”

Sherlock still hesitated, though his mind was made up. “You’ll never come back to London? And you’ll never, _ever_ hurt Molly?”

“London’s not really my style anymore. And I promise I won’t hurt anyone around you, Sherlock, though I see Molly takes precedence.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “The clock’s ticking. Things could be so much easier if you would just agree.”

“All right,” he muttered, never taking his eyes off the screen. The cab was just pulling up to Bart’s as Abram began to pull out his wallet to pay the fare.

“All right, what?” Sabby said, smiling as she turned back towards Sherlock.

“You win! You can go! I won’t try to find you!” he cried. The cab had come to a stop, and the driver was turning around to accept the money for the fare.

“You swear?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, I swear! I swear it! Stop him!” he bellowed. She smiled gratefully at him, then nodded at the man at the computer. He muttered something into his watch; clearly a microphone that connected him to the cabbie. Sherlock watched as the cabbie took the money with one hand, then smothered Abram with a cloth. _Chloroform_... Abram passed out in the backseat, and the cab began to move again.

Sabby turned the computer back around towards her man. “No one will ever see Abe again, this I promise you. And, as far as I know, you’ve gotten to all of Jim’s followers. Except me.” She smiled as she stood. Taking out a pocket knife, she made her way behind Sherlock and began cutting the bonds and unlocking the handcuffs. “Tell your friends whatever you’d like. Tell them you killed me, or that I escaped. The lies make no difference to me.” She came around in front of him as he stood, gently holding his injured wrist. “As long as the truth remains true, as long as you keep your distance as I’ll keep mine, we’ll never see each other again. No harm will come to you or yours, at least from me. You do have a habit of making enemies,” she laughed.

She motioned for the first henchman to approach. “Jerry here will take you back to your flat. 221B Baker Street, correct? He won’t hurt you anymore, right, Jerry?” She stared her partner down, who grunted in response.

“Where will you go?” Sherlock asked, not really caring but curious nonetheless. She chuckled at him.

“That would be telling, and I never tell any secrets. Besides, I doubt I’ll stay in one place for very long. I do get bored easily. But London will never be on my itinerary, don’t you worry. Now, off you go.”

“Take me to Bart’s,” he commanded as he began to follow Jerry out.

“Very good,” Sabby called from behind them. “Checking in on your pathologist? Do try to console her for her missing date. We women never take being stood up very well.”

Sherlock gave Sabrina Moran one last hard look, knowing that he would never see her again. Knowing that he would never attempt to see her or find her again. She won. But Sherlock was surprised that the thought didn’t make him angry. Molly meant so much more than his revenge.

* * *

 

Molly tapped her pen against the desk impatiently as she waited. She sighed, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face. She glanced quickly at her watch and groaned. Abe was over thirty minutes late. At this rate, he shouldn’t even bother coming.

 _Oh, who am I kidding?_ she thought. _He isn’t coming at all._

Sighing once more, she grabbed her lab coat and shrugged it back one. Being stood up made her lose her appetite, so she might as well get back to work. She barely picked up her pen when the doors to the morgue swung open.

Heart in her throat, she turned towards the figure walking in, foolishly hoping it was her date. But it was only Sherlock who came into view, and she bit her lip to keep from sighing out loud. She was about to go turn back to work when she noticed a dark red stain on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. It only took her a second to realize it was dried blood. As he fully came into view, she noticed he was holding his hand awkwardly, and a trickle of blood could be seen in between his fingers. “Sherlock!” she cried, rushing over towards him.

He extended his arm out to her as she hurried towards him, but surprised her when he enveloped her in a hug. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, all but crushing her to him. Surprised, she circled her arms around his back, resting her head under his chin. She had never seen him so willfully participating in the comfort of a physical touch, and never once had he initiated it. Molly rubbed his back as he squeezed harder; it almost seemed he was trying to prove to himself she was still there.

“Sherlock?” she asked, her voice muffled by his chest.

“Are you alright?” he questioned, pulling slightly away from her so he could see her face. He kept his hands on her shoulders, his eyes boring into hers.

“Of course I’m alright,” she answered. She glanced at his wrist which was now freely dripping blood onto her lab coat. “You’re not though. What happened? Here, sit down. Let me...” she turned to step away from him, but he gripped her shoulders harder. Molly had never seen him this way before. She reached her hand up, gently cupping his cheek. “Let me get my first aid kit. I’m not going anywhere, just let me take care of you.”

Sherlock loosened his grip and she scurried away, grabbing her first aid kit. He sat on one of the stools and stared at nothing, only concentrating on the footsteps he heard behind him as Molly hurried back to him. He said nothing as she lifted his injured arm, only watched her as she gently cleaned and wrapped his wrist.

Her touch was so gentle; why had he never noticed it before? She didn’t care that he just bled all over her and her pristine white coat. Her focus and attention was on him, _only him_. It had made him uncomfortable in the past and he had tried to dissuade her from caring for him so deeply. But now... now it made him feel warm inside. Now, more than ever, he truly appreciated her and everything she had ever done with him. Now he truly knew he made the right decision. Letting Moriarty go would have made saving Molly worth it.

Her attention changed to the dried blood on his face. He watched in fascination as her warm brown eyes drew a look of concern. He could feel his face warm as she began to wipe him clean, knowing it had nothing to do with the warm cloth she was using. Her hands never shook, her face wasn’t red... when did he stop having an effect on her? When did she starting having such an effect on him?

She gently dried his face with a dry cloth, then tossed it to the side. She brought her hand back up to gently cup his face, her thumb gently tracing his cheekbone. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand, bringing both up of his own and lightly gripping her upper arms. Her warmth radiated from her hand on his cheek and on his shoulder, filling him with feelings he never thought he was capable of.

_When had he fallen for Molly Hooper?_

Without opening his eyes, he wrapped his arms around her middle and gently pulled her towards him. She fit right between his knees as he pressed his head to her chest, his chin nearly between her breasts and his forehead pressed in the crook of her neck. She tensed for only a second, out of surprise as opposed to any negative feeling, but she wrapped one arm around his shoulders, leaving her other hand free to gently run through his hair.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he muttered, still with his eyes closed. The loss of adrenaline made him very tired, and he struggled to remain awake, even in this awkward position.

“What is?” she asked quietly from above him. The gentle strokes of her fingers through her hair was lulling him to sleep, but there were many things Sherlock wanted to say. He gently pushed her back, keeping his hands firmly on her waist. She in turn dropped her hands to his shoulders. She still looked concerned, though Sherlock supposed she had a right to be; she still didn’t know what had just happened to him and nearly her.

“You... always taking care of me.  Always being there for me. _Always_....” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. It was only hitting him now what danger she had been in, and what losing her would have felt like.

“Always,” she agreed, running her hand up his cheek and through his hair again. “And I always will be. As long as you need me, Sherlock, I’ll be there.”

As he opened his eyes, he was surprised to feel the wetness clinging to his lashes. She gently brought her thumb across his cheek, drying away the tear that managed to escape. “What happened, Sherlock?” she whispered.

“I missed... someone. One of Moriarty’s... you were in danger, and I almost missed...” For the first time in a long, long time, words completely failed him. There was no way he could vocalize how he had made so many mistakes, and how those mistakes nearly cost her her life. Saying it out loud would make it too real.

“But you didn’t,” she pressed. “You couldn’t have, or else you wouldn’t be sitting here in front of me. And this someone, this threat... is...?”

“It’s been taken care of,” he assured her. He didn’t miss the look of relief that spread across her face. “There’s no more danger, not from Moriarty and his crew. Not anymore.”

She smiled, and true, genuine smile, and Sherlock felt his heart grow lighter. “So it’s done then. Life can go back to the way it was three years ago?”

“No,” he urged, standing up. He kept his hands on her waist, but her hands fell from his shoulders and hair to the top of his chest.

“No?” she questioned, fear coming back to her eyes.

“Not like before... better than then,” he promised. “Molly, I’ve treated you...”

“Hush now,” she whispered, bringing her finger to his lips. “Don’t say anything. You don’t have to. You’ve already apologized enough.”

He shook his head, taking her hand in his. “No, I haven’t. I’ll never apologize enough, and I’ll never be able to make up the horrible way I treated you, nor everything you’ve done for me. But I want to try, and I don’t care how long it takes me.” Her brows crossed in confusion. Dropping her hand, he gently brushed that loose strand of hair away from her face. “Molly, since everything happened with Moriarty, your help and support has been... immeasurable. I truly thought then, that when everything was finished, we could just return to whatever normal was. But sometime during the last three years, you... you caught me by surprise. I can’t give you a definitive moment of when it actually happened, but when your life was threatened today, it made me realize...” he paused, unsure on how to continue. She brought her hands back up to his shoulders, her fingertips brushing against the base of his neck, and he leaned down, pressing her forehead to hers. “I have been told I have no heart. That I’m cold and uncaring, and that cases are the only important thing in my life.”

“I know none of that is true,” she murmured, her eyes half closed.

He smiled slightly; he had known that’s how she felt, but was relieved to hear it nonetheless. “You’re right. Moriarty proved how very human I am. I despised him for it, at first. There are many things I despise him for, but now I’m... grateful. Grateful for feeling human. I never thought I would feel _normal_ , let alone happy to be so. And you, Molly Hooper, make me  feel...” She raised her eyes in anticipation. He sighed again, unable to communicate how she made him feel. “I don’t deserve you,” he quietly admitted. “You deserve someone who will treat you wonderfully, who knows what they’re doing, who...”

“I don’t want anyone else. I want you,” she whispered, and instantly flushed. “Not like that. Well, yes, like that, too. I mean...” she stammered, and Sherlock grinned, his first honest grin since his return. She chuckled ruefully, and he allowed his natural instinct to take over as he bent to meet her lips with his.

There would be time to figure out the when and how he fell in love. But for now, in the privacy of St. Bart’s morgue and the quiet laugh and warm lips of Molly Hooper, Sherlock was quite content with feeling clueless.

 


End file.
